


Make a Guy Feel Special

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, First Kiss, Food, Grumpy Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Tending to Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25601776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: What's a guy like Lionel to think when the bane of his existence breaks into his apartment and cooks a nice dinner for him? What's John playing at? Does John even know?
Relationships: Lionel Fusco/John Reese
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Make a Guy Feel Special

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



Some days, it takes all the strength he's got just to drag his ass back home. Balancing two jobs where he winds up getting the hell beat out of him sometimes? _Sucks_. He's getting too old for this crap.

Still, after he's finished all his paperwork like a good little detective and made it back to his building, Lionel hauls himself up four flights of stairs anyway—of course the elevator's busted again; just his luck—and braces himself. Facing down an empty apartment: That's the worst part sometimes. He aches all over, from the split in his forehead to the twist in his right ankle to the chunk of gravel stuck in his left shoe. His ribs hurt, but he doesn't think any of them are cracked. His gut hurts. Even the scar on his ass is twinging tonight, what the hell? And none of those are what stings the most.

Wouldn't it be nice if someone was waiting for him, with a cold drink and a hot pizza and maybe a first aid kit to tend to his cuts and bruises? Wouldn't it be nice if that incredible meat smell filling up the hall was coming from his apartment, or that sweet yeasty bread scent? Yeah, it'd be nice—really nice. But fresh food made for him? Fresh bread?

"Keep dreaming, Fusco," he mutters, digging into his pocket for his keys. "That life ain't for you."

Maybe he'll call Finch up later, after he's patched himself up, make ol' Mr. Piggybank order him some takeout, or maybe Wonderboy—he probably gets paid alright, too. Say, _"Hey, I got my ass kicked for you guys today. Least you can do is buy me an egg roll."_ Nah, probably not—he does still have a little pride stashed away somewhere. It's battered, it's bruised, it's beaten all to hell, just like him, but it's still kicking. Just like him.

But, man, it's really unfair that that smell is getting stronger the closer he gets to his place. Maybe Mr. Wyczenski next door's got company coming over, or maybe Nicki across the hall's cooking something for her girl. "Bastards," he grumbles. They're alright people, usually, but now his mouth's watering and his stomach's growling, and it'd just be nice if someone would give him a break for once, instead of breaking his bones.

Except it's a lot less nice when he opens the door. Some of his lights are on, and that smell is coming from inside.

"What the hell?" He swaps his keys for his gun and starts cautiously inside, leaving the door standing open. "Hey, you're messing with the wrong guy, buddy," he calls out. "I'm NYPD." Is this HR's new intimidation technique? The cartels'? Someone else? Fixing food—steak, god, that smells like _steak_ in there, and bread, and is that some kind of potato thing, and some vegetables? Smells like heaven—in somebody's home before taking them out? What the hell? "Don't make me come in there, 'cause I'll be coming in shooting."

Then he spots a first aid kit spread open on his coffee table, nice and neat and expensive-looking, and a black suit jacket draped over the back of his lumpy old couch.

Swearing under his breath, he puts his gun away and kicks the door shut, not caring about the bang. "Hey," he yells, "is your kitchen busted, Wonderboy?"

A few seconds later, John peeks out of the kitchen, an obnoxious smirk on his face. "Hello, Lionel," he says, in that soft growl of his. God, he's got such a punchable face, Lionel thinks. Handsome as hell, but that pretty, smirking mug really needs a fist rammed into it. Jackass.

"You." Lionel stabs a finger in his direction. "What the hell are you doing in my apartment? Glasses too cheap to get you a place of your own?"

"I'm cooking," John says, ducking back into the kitchen, only to peek back out again. "Thought you were a detective."

"Thought you might have a brain stashed in that punching bag you call a head," Lionel shoots back, then points at himself. "This is _my_ place. Mine. Not yours." As he gestures emphatically, his head spins, and he stumbles, but he straightens himself out pretty quickly. "You wanna cook your dinner here, you better pay my rent."

John's face falls—ah, crap, he didn't get himself together fast enough, did he? Nice going, Fusco—and he darts back into the kitchen briefly, then heads for Lionel, crossing the small apartment in long strides. Must be nice to be that damn tall. "Sit down," John says, gentle but commanding, and takes hold of Lionel's shoulders and urges him onto the couch.

Part of him wants to resist, but, dammit, he's tired. He lets John maneuver him without putting up a fight, leaning into John a little more than he likes, then giving in to the urge to sag against the busted cushions and be rearranged like a ragdoll. That it's John pushing him around isn't something he's keen on, but John's hands are careful as they move over his body, starting with getting a good peek at the nasty gash on his face. It's stopped bleeding, and he took care of it some, but not as well as he knows he should have—just enough to shut nosy bastards up for a bit. John probably knows that, too.

"I need to clean this up," John says, his face impassive, but Lionel hears what he thinks might be a note of distress in John's voice. He's not sure he likes it, to be honest.

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on the food?" he demands. "You burn my apartment down, I'm kicking your ass. Then I'm telling my landlord who you are so he can kick it, too."

John chuckles, the jackass, and pulls away only to fetch an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit. "You're not kicking anyone's ass right now, Lionel," he says, without any menace, which is kind of creepy in its own right. Lionel scowls, but, as usual, it has no effect. Placid as ever, John opens the wipe, and reaches for Lionel's face again. "This is gonna sting."

Sure enough, soon as the cool, damp wipe touches his skin, it burns like crazy. He sucks in a sharp breath, and the bruises on his ribs and his belly tell him to stop being a damn baby when he's got real pains to worry about. "Ah, jeez," he mutters, clutching at his chest. "Son of a—"

"Where else are you hurt?" John demands, abandoning his attempt at cleaning Lionel's face and going for his shirt. Lionel doesn't resist, even though he probably should. "Finch said they got you pretty good—" That gets a small laugh out of Lionel; he can't picture Finch putting it like that. "—but he didn't know much more."

"Mr. Know-It-All don't know something?" Lionel asks. "Jeez. Way to make a guy feel special."

"I cooked for you, Lionel," John says, putting his usual growl into Lionel's name—there's the Wonderboy he knows. "You should feel special."

For some reason, that makes Lionel's stomach flutter, and leaves him feeling warm inside. Weird. Maybe it's indigestion. "Oh, yeah? You cooking for me don't make you Martha Stewart."

Then, John gets his shirt open, and, suddenly, a guy who looks like an aging supermodel's face to face with his body, with his moobs and his chest hair and his bruised and flabby gut. But fuck it—if John didn't already have a good idea of what was underneath his clothes before opening them up, that's his problem. Still, there's more of a shake in his voice than he likes when Lionel says, "Hey, shouldn't I be getting that dinner before you get me naked?"

"It's called first aid for a reason," John says, placing his hands lightly on Lionel's belly. His palms are warm, rough, barely touching him at all yet still making him shiver. "First aid first, then the wining and dining."

Wining and dining. Lionel swallows hard. Is that what dinner's about? But he's got to respond before he thinks too hard on it. "Nah, it's 'cause it's what you get before the real professionals get ahold of you," he says, just as John carefully presses on his middle. His hands move quickly over him, professional as a doctor, checking if there's something hinky going on beneath the softness of his gut. There's not—Lionel would've noticed if something was busted by now—but he's a little too busy thinking to protest. Wining and dining. He doesn't do the "wining" part anymore, but still.

Then, John palpates his ribs, and _holy shit._ He starts cussing up a storm, and John pulls away quickly. "Sorry. Didn't feel like anything was broken—"

"But it fucking hurts! Jeez!" He clutches at it until the pain turns bearable again, while John digs around in the kit, eventually pulling out a rattling bottle of Advil.

"Here," John says, offering the bottle of pills. Lionel snatches it from his grasp. "I'll go get you some water."

"Nah, forget that." He's put off taking anything for too long. He digs out a couple of pills and swallows them dry, one after the other. They go down without any trouble. His ex always used to make faces when he did that, but John doesn't flinch, just takes back the bottle when Lionel's done and puts it away without comment. Good man. Probably done it himself a few times. "You can go grab me some of that food, though. Smells okay." Smells fantastic, but he can't let Gordon Ramsey here get a big head. "What is it?"

"Ribeye," John says, straightening up. Lionel watches him stand, strangely transfixed by the slow unfurling of John's body, what the hell? But he's so tall, and graceful, and, hey, when did he start noticing how easy on the eyes Mr. Tall, Dark, and, Hey, Did I Mention Really Freaking Tall was? Is. And he cooked him a _ribeye_ , and... "Roasted potatoes. Roasted Brussels sprouts." Lionel makes a face, and John's turns stern. "You need to eat your vegetables, Lionel. Oh, and there's bread, too."

"Homemade?" Lionel asks, and John nods slightly, and starts to look a little uneasy. Lionel's eyes bug out. "That _you_ made?" John nods again. "Jeez. Doesn't that stuff take a long time?" He has a few vague memories of both his grandmothers baking bread a couple of times, and his ex liked to "experiment" in the kitchen and tried making some herself. Always seemed complicated, and it took forever. So how...

"I kind of cheated," John says, with a shrug. "Had it already made. Rolls. Froze 'em." He scratches the back of his neck, looking suddenly awkward. Shit. He's embarrassed by baking. And here Lionel thought the guy was unflappable. "Then baked them."

"You bake? Wait, you cook?" There's a hint of pink starting to show on John's cheeks, and, aw, hell, it's _cute_. Makes Lionel's heart feel all funny. "And you did it for me?"

"Is that a problem, Lionel?"

"Hey, you're the one who cooked me _dinner_ , buddy. You talked about wining and dining me." John looks away, and Lionel's heart does that funny fluttering thing again. "I mean, I don't want to assume things, but, uh...steak? You cooked steak. _Ribeye_ steak. And, I mean, ribeyes may not be fancy when you run with Richie Finch—hell, filet mignon might not be fancy when you're running with him—but to a guy like me?" He laughs. "If it ain't Salisbury in a TV dinner or some of that really tough stuff they slap the name 'steak' on, or maybe a cheesesteak or something, I gotta wonder what it is you're doing."

John lets out a nervous laugh. "Can't a guy just make a nice dinner for a friend? Show some appreciation for a guy who got beat up?"

Lionel can't help himself—he laughs, even though it hurts. "Show some appreciation? Right. You guys ain't ever shown me any appreciation. 'Sides, a nice dinner for guys like me is a burger, or falafel or something. Picking me up takeout. Pizza. That kind of thing. Not—" Lionel gestures toward the kitchen. "—steak and freakin' homemade bread you had lying around. What are you playing at? I don't want to make any assumptions, but are you trying to date me or something? 'Cause this ain't how guys like me do things."

Shifting on his feet, then raising his head defiantly and crossing his arms over his chest—and, for once, he looks more vulnerable than deadly—John asks, "Would that be a problem?" his voice low and menacing. "Me trying to date you?"

He would've thought he'd have an easy answer for that question, but it hits him like a brick to the chest to hear it put like that. His mouth falls open, gaping like a fish, while John stares _into_ him with those terrifying eyes of his. Blue eyes. Pretty eyes. God, when did the bane of his existence get good-looking?

_Would_ it be a problem? He's kind of surprised when the answer turns out to be, _Not really_.

But he can't actually say that. That's not who he is, not who they are. So he shoots back with, "That depends—you any good at kissing, Wonderboy?"

John stares at him, then squints a little, confused, and asks, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You wanna date me?" Lionel slaps the couch cushion beside him and thrusts out his lips, making kissing sounds. "Pucker up, big guy."

For the longest time, John stands still, staring at him, and Lionel's heart starts pounding in his chest—or maybe he just now noticed it. He's had bigger things on his mind than what his pulse has been doing. Then John _moves_ —fast, scary fast, joining him on the couch. He reaches for Lionel, his ever-steady hands trembling as they cup Lionel's face. Calluses and rough skin lightly scrape Lionel's cheeks through his late evening stubble, but John's touch is tender, careful, as careful as it was earlier, and without his own permission, Lionel finds his eyes falling shut, and his breath coming out in a soft, soft sigh.

"You sure about this?" John whispers, and, nah, Lionel's not, he's never been less sure of anything in his life, but at the same time, he _is_ , somehow.

"Yeah," he says, voice coming out rough, quiet. Somewhere along the lines, his mouth has gone dry. He licks his lips. "Hurry up and, uh, show me what you got."

John does, kissing him slow and nervous and sweet, lips moving gently against Lionel's. And, oh, okay, yeah—yeah, he's definitely okay with this. So he grabs John by the collar and deepens the kiss, chasing the rasp of John's chapped lips on his, the taste of John on his tongue, the thrill of being kissed. John's pretty damn good at it.

Better not tell him that, though. Lionel decides to just keep kissing him instead.


End file.
